


War as we knew it was obsolete

by thought



Series: Help I'm Alive [3]
Category: Stargate Atlantis, Stargate Universe
Genre: Getting Together, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Mind/Mood Altering Substances, Unreliable Narrator, absolutely no feelings allowed, brief accidental child acquisition, flirting via math
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2020-01-06 17:31:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18393065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thought/pseuds/thought
Summary: Aliens are your friends, John.





	War as we knew it was obsolete

**Author's Note:**

> The way I figure, this series takes place in a world where the events of SGU happened a year or two later than they did in canon. Also, I'm mostly just having fun so I'm not all that fussed about perfect timelines.  
> This addresses some of the events briefly referenced in the other two fics.

The second time Sheppard meets Rush is about six hours after their first meeting, much in the way that as soon as you learn a new word it seems to pop up in conversation constantly. Sheppard is entertaining himself by pretending to consider escaping the mountain to drink himself into an irresponsible stupor in pursuit of his continuing mental health. Earth hasn't felt like home for a few years by now, but lately his subconscious has gone from classifying the SGC as a familiar and well-loved hotel to a potentially hostile alien planet. Rodney says it's his PTSD manifesting in new fun and interesting ways, or possibly something Atlantis has planted in his head to keep him from wanting to leave the city.

"If you're not going to be serious," Sheppard had said, "I'll go talk to Teyla."

Rodney had blinked. "I’m 100% serious, John. Those are my top two hypotheses, and I bet everyone else would agree with me."

Sheppard's been on Earth for three days getting the SGC's condensed Lucian Alliance 101 course, and it's really brought home the disconnect between Atlantis and Earth. The information presented about the LA had made him angry, sure, disgusted by the brutality and unsettled by the brainwashing, but it's the same way he'd feel about any briefing on an alien conflict-- it's shitty, but Atlantis doesn't have the resources to get significantly involved in other people's problems. He wonders if it's because the LA is made up of humans. He's intimately familiar with the wide and varied ways humans will find to decimate each other. There's a point where you become desensitized to it all.

The Ori he understands as a far more visceral threat. Alien vs. human. Us vs. them. Yeah, this is why he's not expedition leader.

"Aliens are your friends, John," he mutters under his breath, so of course when he turns the corner there's a person right in front of him coming the other way down the hallway and staring at him with the exact amount of skepticism that such an introduction deserves.

"Christ," the newcomer says. "I assumed given the whole... American military colonialism theme that Earth isn't going to come across particularly well to whatever might be out there, but it's surprisingly depressing to be proven so unequivocally correct."

"Oh hey," says Sheppard. "You made it off the floor. Good job."

"What?" The other man stares at Sheppard for a long few seconds, uncomprehending.

"We met earlier," Sheppard says. "You decided the math problem my best friend the genius astrophysicist gave me for fun wasn't hard enough, criticized my career choice, and then possibly passed out, I'm not sure."

"I did not pass out."

Sheppard shrugs. "Whatever you say." To be honest, Sheppard’s not entirely confident this guy isn't going to have a repeat performance of collapsing on the floor. There are heavy bruises under his eyes, and his hair is a tangled mess. He's holding a coffee mug with an outline of Colorado on the side and if Sheppard watches closely enough there's a fine tremor vibrating through his arm and hand, tiny ripples tracing the surface of the coffee.

"Listen," Sheppard says. "Do you maybe want a hand getting... somewhere? Do you live on-base?"

"Absolutely not."

"Was that no you don't need help, or no you don't live on base?"

"Both."

"Ok then," Sheppard says. It's not his job to babysit SGC scientists. He steps around the man and continues briskly in his aimless wandering.

"Did you solve it?"

Sheppard stops, turns back. "Yeah," he says. "I think so. Quantum mechanics is kind of outside my wheelhouse, though. You did notice how the original problem focused on topology?"

"The original problem," he says disdainfully, "was from a PHD qualification exam. Given the level of your work I assume you've done a Masters already, and I'm not interested in your ability to meet the most basic expectations of competency. Your friend doesn't think particularly highly of you."

"Huh," says Sheppard. "And why are you interested in my abilities in the first place?"

"Show me your proof," he says.

"That? Not actually an answer," Sheppard says, dryly. "There's a social script we're using, here."

He pulls out the notebook anyway. There's nothing classified in it, even if this guy does turn out to be a crazy person or an undercover Trust agent or whatever the hell else the SGC deals with on a regular basis--

"You're not Lucian Alliance, are you?" Sheppard asks.

"No."

"Cool. I'm Colonel John Sheppard, by the way."

"Mmhm."

"And you? I like to at least know a guy's name if I'm going to be doing homework for him."

"Dr. Nicholas Rush."

The name sounds familiar, but Sheppard can't remember from where. That being said, most of the SGC scientists are vaguely familiar to him by this point, either because they've helped out during the crisis of the day or because Rodney has opinions on their abilities and/or qualifications that he feels the need to share. Loudly, and at great length.

"Nice to meet you," Sheppard says, and holds out his notebook in leu of his hand. Rush snatches it and skims the two pages carefully, leaning back against the wall and bouncing his knee as he reads.

"If this really were your homework I'd be reminding you to show your work," he says, absently. Sheppard frowns, and steps closer to get a look at the section he's talking about, because even 14 years out of school there's still a tiny voice in his head that sounds exactly like his very first undergrad Stats professor that screams "show your work!" whenever he looks at a number longer than four digits.

"People like you are the reason I got out of academia," Sheppard lies, leaning in over the notebook. Rush jerks backwards so hard he hits his head on the wall and his already tenuous grip on his coffee cup gives way, dousing Sheppard's chest and sleeve in Luke-warm coffee.

"Fuck!" Rush bites out, shoving Sheppard away with a hand in the middle of his chest. Sheppard feels his jacket squish wetly under the pressure. The mug rolls gently back and forth on the floor at their feet, unbroken.

"It's ok," Sheppard says, keeping his voice even and quiet. "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."

Rush blinks, and steps sideways along the wall until he can move into the middle of the hall without coming within arms-length of Sheppard. He's staring down at the mug. "Are the fucking coffee cups alien too, then?"

Sheppard blinks, then frowns because it's true that no coffee mug he's ever used would have survived a fall to the concrete floor. "...I'll get back to you on that one," he says.

"Wonderful," Rush says, dryly. His hands are still shaking.

Sheppard briefly considers his plans for the evening, and decides babysitting a random SGC scientist and sharpening his math skills is probably a better choice than wandering around and hoping the security cameras don't track a pattern that would get him escorted to the on-base psychologist and/or a holding cell. "Look," he says. "I need to change, but after that why don't we grab dinner in the refectory and you can ridicule my abilities to your heart's content."

"I never said your abilities were lacking," Rush says. "Just that you tend to make intuitive leaps in your problem solving that the average person wouldn't be able to follow without illustration."

Sheppard isn't quite sure what to say to that, which is kind of embarrassing. He's not particularly prone to self-deprecation beyond the blatantly ridiculous, and it's awkward to realize he's coming out with it automatically.

"So... dinner?" Sheppard says after a silence gone painfully awkward.

"As long as you don’t expect me to eat," Rush says.

"That's... kind of the point of dinner," Sheppard says.

"Are you allowed to leave this fortress of thinly veiled idealized militarism?"

"I'm a Colonel," Sheppard points out. "They don't lock us in our charging stations at night."

The corner of Rush's mouth twitches the tiniest bit. "I only ask because I really can't imagine any reason for anyone to be down in the personnel and accounting filing archives unless they've got quite literally nowhere else to go."

"Huh," says Sheppard. "So I guess I should be asking you the same question. Unless you’re just a very over-qualified accountant."

"I work best alone," Rush says. "Which is fair fucking difficult to achieve within the confines of this bloody mountain."

"Yeah," says Sheppard. "I have noticed that."

"Well, now that we've both been assured of our basic observational skills, go get a new shirt and meet me at the main entrance."

"Where are we going?" Sheppard asks, amused.

"You said you wanted dinner. If you simply must be fed I'm sure I can find a location more tolerable than the Stargate canteen."

"Sure," Sheppard says. He's pretty sure he's just managed to accidentally convince a scientist to buy him dinner, and he's kind of curious to see how far this is going to go.

"Go," Rush says, waving him off. He's still holding Sheppard's notebook and he has a feeling he's not getting it back any time soon.

*

Dinner is at a Lebanese restaurant squished between a drugstore and a 7-11.

"I hate your country," Rush says conversationally, once they're seated. Sheppard's heart is still pounding from the adrenaline hit that is apparently being a passenger in a car with Nicholas Rush at the wheel. He finally understands how people feel when he pulls stunts in the air just for the fun of it.

Sheppard considers Rush's... everything. "I get the impression it might be mutual."

"Colorado, in particular, is extraordinarily loathsome. At least there's water in California. I constantly feel as if I'm the protagonist of some post-apocalyptic experiment in brutalism."

"You don't seem like the Mad Max type, don't worry," Sheppard says. Rush very obviously doesn't get the reference.

Rush orders white wine, so Sheppard orders red even though what he really wants is a beer. Or, alternatively, not to start drinking when he's exhausted by the hypervigilance he can't turn off and sitting across the table from a stranger who is clearly going to end the night either collapsing unconscious or punching Sheppard in the face because he moved too fast. But he can't exactly call out Rush for disregarding a social script and then go ahead and do the exact same thing half an hour later.

Once the waiter is gone (Rush apparently wasn't kidding when he said he wasn’t planning to eat) Rush pulls Sheppard's notebook out of his bag and slides it across the table.

"I've created a brief assessment of your areas of weakness and strength,” he explains. "You won't be able to finish it in the next hour, so don't bother starting now."

"Again," Sheppard says. "Why are you even interested?"

"You're an anomaly," Rush says. "And I'm stalled on my current project. It's either this or fucking drowning myself in the kettle. I'm not even allowed to work in the privacy of my own flat."

Sheppard comes alarmingly close to rolling his eyes. "You may have noticed the little 'classified' label on the entire goddamn mountain. The bureaucrats get twitchy if anything leaves, even if it's just a laptop that might have once opened something vaguely related to classified information." Also, civilian scientists usually have the most dangerous information and are the easiest targets.

"Yes, yes, I’ve received this lecture, thank you," Rush says irritably.

"What're you working on?" Sheppard asks.

Rush looks at him like he's just suggested the Earth is flat. "Something that I don't intend to discuss in a public restaurant for fear of yet another lecture," he says. "Also, I'm not entirely sure you have clearance for the project."

Sheppard is suddenly looking forward to that wine a hell of a lot more. Sure, Stargate-related things can be spoken around, implied, coded easily enough that a discussion in public isn't that difficult. But as a goddamn Colonel he should have never put Rush in a position to do so, especially not for the purposes of simply satisfying idle curiosity. Everybody has cell phones and recorders and cameras. Anybody could be working for any number of hostile entities. He really fucking wants to go home.

"I'm pretty sure I do," Sheppard says, trying to project dry, slightly condescending indulgence even though there's a niggling concern in the back of his head that maybe he doesn't. He's been in another Galaxy for years. "Under the influence of unknown agents". And everybody knows his service record by now.

"I've only got your assertions of your identity to go on," Rush says, leaning back. "I know nothing about you aside from your mathematical skills and that you're apparently the sort of person who attends briefings with Landry et al."

"For my sins," Sheppard says, darkly, and then has the urge to laugh because in a round-about way it's true.

"What made you leave academia?" Rush says, no intonation, like he's reading off a checklist. Sheppard wonders how long this game of boredom chicken can go on.

*

It isn't as if they start sleeping together that first night. Rush drives Sheppard back towards the SGC and then keeps right on driving, because the hunted look in Sheppard's eyes is familiar and it will inconvenience Rush significantly if the SGC goes into security lockdown because one of their cardboard cutout soldiers goes mad. Besides that, being alone in his flat with nothing to work on and only the noise of other people's televisions through the walls to keep him company is like to drive him insane long before the chevron project. He's looked at his file. Insanity as a result of the work is a legitimate concern that no one seems to be interested in examining. Which is fine. Rush passed his psychological assessment with flying colours, mandated military doctors are no different from social workers or university volunteer counselors.

Sheppard says all the right words, "I couldn’t impose" and "I need to check back in at the mountain" and "I have an early morning meeting." Rush ignores him, and Sheppard doesn't raise any point a second time.

"I know for a fact the SGC pays their scientists better than this," Sheppard says, as soon as they've gone into his flat. "Or is this the latest interior decorating trend? Minimalism, but take it to the extreme."

"I have scotch," Rush says. When he'd first moved to Colorado he'd gone through the motions of acquiring all the basic necessities in a daze, his body not yet trained out of existing as one-of-two, his hands on automatic-- her preferred brand of whisky, hypo-allergenic washing up liquid, orange juice with fucking bits in even though he knows the thought of drinking it makes him nauseous. He doesn't really remember that first week, but it's left him with a variety of household goods that he either has no interest in using or which hold far too much emotional association to be practical if he wants to remain the sort of functional human who can pass a psych assessment.

"I was actually planning kind of specifically not to get drunk tonight," Sheppard says. Rush doesn't like how Sheppard keeps acting outside of his predictions. Though, he supposes, if that were true he'd not have prolonged their interaction in the first place. Lying to himself is an unpleasant and dangerous habit to get into.

"There's also coffee," Rush says.

Sheppard arches an eyebrow. "So, is this symbolic coffee or..."

"It's expensive coffee," Rush says. "You may or may not appreciate the quality, I have no idea."

Sheppard frowns. "I will, unfortunately," he says, lightly, but he's studying Rush like a complicated equation he's got stuck on.

Rush drags open the door to the closet where he'd shoved all the boxes that the moving company had left for him to find in the middle of his sitting room when he'd first arrived. He hasn't bothered unpacking more than the essentials. Once he's shifted everything around with enough frustration and bruises to satisfy the universe's sense of humour he carries a pillow and afghan back to where Sheppard's still just standing awkwardly in the middle of the room.

The afghan had been knitted for him by one of his grad students at Berkley.

"I'm a stress knitter," she'd said, darkly, dropping it on his desk on October 15.

it's the most obnoxious shades of orange and blue that he's ever seen, but Gloria had laughed for ten minute straight when he'd brought it home and forbidden him from sending it straight to a charity shop.

He pushes them into Sheppard's chest until he takes them, staring down with what Rush would bet money is his best 'humouring the aliens' smile.

"There are pencils in the far-left drawer in the kitchen," Rush says.

Sheppard juggles the blanket and pillow until he can slide the notebook out of his jacket pocket. "You really brought me home with you to make me sleep on your floor and do math homework."

Rush winces when Sheppard says home. Sheppard notices, but doesn’t comment, which is either a kindness or an avoidance of any sort of emotional conversation. Rush hopes it's the latter. "It's better than the alternative," Rush says.

Sheppard does something with his eyebrows that Rush can't possibly be expected to interpret. "Depends which alternative we're talking about."

"No," Rush says. "It doesn't."

Sheppard presses his lips together. "Right."

Something has clearly gone poorly in this conversation, but Rush can't figure out what it is. He goes to make coffee, since Sheppard doesn't appear to intend to. Once the coffee is brewing Rush takes his laptop out of his bag and sets it up on the empty cardboard box he's been using as a desk.

"So, given the tragic state of affairs that is the SGC enforcing security procedures, what do you do when you're not working?" Sheppard asks.

"Stare at the walls and contemplate my inevitable obsolescence to any meaningful aspects of Earth's current areas of engagement."

"Really," Sheppard says, dryly.

"Of course not," Rush lies. "I'm teaching myself Ancient."

"I can probably help with that," Sheppard says, casually. Rush sighs.

"Of course you can."

it takes him four days to realize Sheppard had been expecting them to sleep together.

*

Sheppard gets called back to Earth, via a newly-convoluted series of carefully phrased requests routed through the IOA, to serve as a very powerful light switch for SG11. Their engineer has managed to convince someone that only a powerful natural gene carrier with a history of successfully interfacing with Ancient technology will be able to help him activate the potential super-weapon of the week.

Nobody mentioned the flowers.

None of SG11 seem to be seeing walls where there aren't any, or hearing faint chiming like a grandfather clock perpetually caught on the hour. None of SG11 appear to be having any difficulty remembering things like the colour pink or why maps are flat. Sheppard plays light switch and keeps his head down and watches Major Billings carefully so he can judge if anything he hears or sees is an actual real threat. Billings is a good leader and terrifyingly competent with every possible type of firearm, but she's twitchy, so Sheppard has no concern that he'll miss something because she's trying not to spook the scientists.

They go back through the gate and Sheppard plans to tell whoever does his post-mission checkup about the hallucinatory pollen, but he's sitting on the bed waiting for a nurse to get to him and as he stares at the doors a slow creeping layer of stone starts to cover them over, blocking out the noise and the light from the outside hallway. He thinks that fear tastes like iron in the back of his throat, and there is a city-shaped absence in his head. He tells the nurse that he feels fine, keeps his breathing and his heartbeat steady and calm and when he walks out he doesn’t even hesitate at walking face-first into what seems like a stone wall. He walks down the hallway until he's far enough away from the infirmary that nobody will suspect him of escaping. He needs to find his team, but his team isn't there.

He gets into an elevator.

He goes up a few floors, and gets out when other people get in.

He needs to leave the mountain until the hallucinations stop, because there's no way he could get all the way back to Atlantis without someone noticing something’s wrong. There's also a chance he won't be allowed to gate back at all. That had been the agreement, but it's not like anybody can really do anything if the SGC higher-ups decide Sheppard deserves a nice three-week vacation on the Daedalus.

So. Plan. Get out of the mountain without pinging any of the guards' weirdness radars. Call a cab (with what phone? What money?) or sign a car out. Assuming he can drive, which is... well. It's an assumption.

He needs to buy a cell phone for when he's on Earth. That's gonna be part three of the plan. Approximately.

If he's been assigned guest quarters yet he doesn’t know about it, so he hitches his pack higher on his back -- it, at least, has gone through decontamination-- and goes back into the elevator.

The guards barely glance at him as he passes through the checkpoints to get out of the mountain. He's just filling out the form to sign out a car when a familiar voice behind him says

"No, David, I did not become an expert in either Lua or children's entertainment in the past twelve hours, nor do I intend to enable this insipid scheme to any degree other than that written in stone in my contract."

Rush is clutching his cell phone against his ear like he's afraid it's going to try to run away. He's wearing a raincoat and sunglasses, the incongruity of which throws Sheppard off for a good thirty seconds. His hair is dripping like he's just gotten out of the shower. All of the water droplets shimmer with a rainbow of colours, iridescent until they splatter to the tile in streaky puddles of brownish red. Sheppard rubs his eyes with his knuckles but of course it doesn't help.

"I can't imagine where you got the idea that I care," Rush continues, "given the way Friday's fucking teleconference ended, but..." He finally notices Sheppard staring at him. It's a good thing Rush has such violent reactions to being startled, really, because his situational awareness is kind of shit.

Sheppard gives a small wave with the hand still holding a pen. Rush pulls off his sunglasses, which weren't doing a good job of hiding how exhausted he looks. Sheppard has yet to actually see him sleep.

Rush hangs up the phone without even finishing his sentence, but Sheppard's pretty sure it's more because of whoever is on the other end of the line than any sort of strong reaction to seeing Sheppard. It's been about six weeks since that first not-date, and the subsequent two days of Rush pushing his rusty math abilities to their limits and Sheppard coming to the slow realization that Rush didn't so much not want to fuck him as he's just really goddamn oblivious. Sheppard noticed the wedding ring, of course, but he also noticed the apartment full of boxes and the almost palpable cloud of grief that follows Rush around. He can put two and two together.

"What's wrong with you?" Rush asks, impatiently, from where he's suddenly appeared right in front of Sheppard's face. Possibly this is not the first time he's asked.

"Absolutely nothing," Sheppard says, meeting Rush's gaze and hoping desperately that he gets the message.

"I can see that," Rush says. "Fantastic. This is exactly what this day needed."

Sheppard presses his lips together and tries to ignore that the floor is tilting about 27 degrees to the left under his feet. "Nice to see you too."

Rush glances at the paperwork on the counter beside Sheppard and then, very deliberately, nudges it with one finger until it falls into the recycling bin.

"Come on," Rush says. "I'll take you to lunch and we can catch up." It's quite literally the worst attempt at being a normal human Sheppard's ever witnessed, and that's counting the aliens. The guard behind the counter actually leans away a little bit, looking unsettled.

Sheppard is going to take a hammer to Rush's laptop if he gets them waylaid for additional security screening because the concept of friendship is apparently so goddamn foreign to him.

Sheppard shoves at Rush's shoulder and Rush grabs his wrist around the same time and they sort of half-drag each other through the last security checkpoint, which doesn't seem to strike any guards as even vaguely weird. They pass Walter (who definitely must have a last name) in the parking lot and he stares, frozen, at the two of them like he's just stepped on a landmine.

"If you're actually stupid enough to believe yourself capable of driving, I'm leaving you on the side of the road and committing myself to Stargate Medical given my judgement must be spectacularly impaired."

"I hadn't really thought that far ahead," Sheppard says.

"I'll repeat myself, because you're clearly in no fit state to conduct a conversation. What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"Promise not to turn me in?"

"Jesus Christ," Rush says, which is apparently supposed to serve as an answer. He takes one of the sharp hairpin turns so fast that Sheppard can feel himself falling off the side of the mountain. He swallows hard. Hopefully this shit leaves his system fast.

"I'm pretty sure I breathed in some hallucinogenic alien pollen," he explains. "I've gone through standard decontamination, and nobody else was effected, so I'm assuming it's going to wear off and is otherwise harmless."

"And you didn't report this because? Doesn't it go against your programming to hide something like this?"

For a few seconds Sheppard is a city, and he almost explains that there are self-preservation protocols built-in, even if most people disapproved. "I didn't feel like taking up a bed when somebody else might actually need it," he says, instead.

"Noble," Rush says. "I hope you weren't actually expecting lunch."

Sheppard shakes his head and regrets it as the entire car does lazy flips around him. "I figured odds were low."

Rush takes him back to his apartment, which he has clearly not progressed at unpacking a single bit, and Sheppard lies on the bed and tries to type his AAR on his tablet. He's got two to write, because even on a milk run Landry's not getting the same sort of detail that Woolsey is, both because of home team loyalty and because Landry probably doesn't even read the reports whereas Woolsey will go over them with an obnoxiously fine-toothed comb. The letters keep blurring and switching places, and he can't quite keep a grasp on the actual physically present parts of the tablet when his hands keep tricking him into believing there are a few extra inches on either side.

"I can't watch this," Rush says, who has not, in fact been watching him, but who is at least sitting in the same room in some sort of passive aggressive attempt to make sure he doesn't die of alien allergies.

"You write my report then, why don't you?" Sheppard grumbles. Rush scribbles something on the back of the takeout menu that he's using as a scratch pad and then stands up and comes over.

"Give that here," he says, but grabs the tablet out of Sheppard's hands before he can move to offer it.

"I wasn't serious," Sheppard says, because he feels a little guilty and also he's still not actually sure what Rush's security clearance is.

"Tell me what happened," Rush says. "I'm unfortunately familiar enough with the style of military reporting that I can write it up in less time than it's taken you to open a blank document."

"Flattery will get you everywhere."

"Sadly untrue," Rush says. "I've tried."

Setting aside that horrifying image, Sheppard closes his eyes and starts reciting back the facts of the mission. It really was a simple mission, so it doesn't take very long. Rush quizzes him in far more detail than is necessary about the Ancient technology -- definitely not a super weapon, possibly a piece of construction equipment, but Sheppard will let the scientists figure that one out themselves -- and finally Sheppard says, "So what are you trying to decode?"

Rush goes silent and Sheppard opens his eyes. Rush is staring down at the tablet, hair falling into his face so Sheppard can't see his expression. "Something with the potential to alter our fundamental understanding of the universe and/or our position on the galactic stage."

Sheppard yawns. "Yeah, sounds about right. We find one of those like, weekly."

Rush does leave, after that, and he takes the tablet with him, so Sheppard decides there's no harm in passing out for a while.

When he wakes up the world seems far more stable, and he's a little alarmed at the degree of his flagrant disregard for post-mission protocols. He uses Rush's shower even though he'd showered when he'd gotten back from the mission, then follows the click of laptop keys out onto the tiny balcony where Rush is sitting on the cement with his back leaning against the wall. He's got a cup of coffee beside him and a cigarette between his lips, frowning intensely at the screen of his laptop.

"Wow," Sheppard says from the doorway. "I'm just going to take a few minutes to bask in this sense of vindication."

"What?" Rush says, looking up and staring at Sheppard like he'd forgotten his presence in the apartment.

"You," Sheppard says, pointing at him, "have insulted my intelligence at least fifteen times since we met. More if we count implications. And yet here you are, cheerfully killing yourself because you can't be bothered to kick a comparatively mild addiction. This is just... very good. I'm so glad I'm here to witness this."

"Are you still high?" Rush asks.

"Signs are pointing to no," Sheppard says, "but I'll let you know when I have enough evidence for a solid conclusion."

Rush shakes his head and does a complicated juggling act that allows him to take a sip of his coffee without the cigarette getting in the way or his hand lifting from the laptop's touch pad. Sheppard goes back into the apartment to investigate the fridge, because, looking at the clock, he hasn't eaten in almost 24 hours. Rush comes in when Sheppard's in the middle of chopping a handful of sad-looking carrots, the purpose of which he has yet to decide on.

"I assume I don't need to tell you to keep what happened earlier to yourself," Sheppard says, carefully, because he needs to be sure.

"You don't," Rush says. "You could try asking me, though."

Sheppard slams the knife down hard, sending a slice of carrot rocketing across the counter. "Yes. Ok. I'm asking you."

"That depends why you did it," Rush says, retrieving the carrot and frowning at Sheppard like he's a fussy toddler.

"I didn't want to waste time satisfying the bureaucracy," he lies. "The protocols are there for a reason, but I'm pretty experienced at knowing when something's a legitimate concern at this point."

Rush rinses his coffee mug and pours a new cup before he answers. "You're self-aware enough, I hope, to realize that's exactly what someone who's compromised would say."

Sheppard opens his mouth but Rush holds up a hand. "No, no, I'm not done. It's irresponsible, and for all you know you could have put everyone around you in significant danger, which I object to on a personal and practical level. You're also lying about your reasoning, which is in no way as reassuring as you apparently think it is."

"But...?" Sheppard says, because Rodney has trained him well regarding these sorts of rants.

"But," Rush says, irritably, "I would have done the same thing."

"Yeah," says Sheppard. "I thought so. And speaking of being irresponsible, did you call in sick today just so you could make sure I didn't die in your apartment?"

Rush flicks hair out of his eyes. "I don't 'call in sick'," he says, primly. "I set my own schedule, and I'm not feeling particularly inclined to do the SGC any favours at the moment."

Sheppard frowns. "Did I hallucinate you talking about children's entertainment?"

"One can only wish."

"That sounds... inexplicable, actually. What, is there a lab full of Ancient toys somewhere? Is that your secret project?"

"Yes," Rush says, expressionlessly. "That's exactly it. You've solved the puzzle."

"Speaking of which," Sheppard says, but Rush has set his coffee down and is staring at Sheppard, contemplatively. "What?" Sheppard asks, leaning a hip against the counter.

"Do you play video games?" Rush asks, the last two words spoken like a vaguely unfamiliar and intensely distasteful alien object.

Sheppard blinks. "Maybe I am still high."

"Ideally, someone living in an Ancient city in another galaxy wouldn't waste time and energy on such plebian pursuits, but as I am continually reminded we do not live in an ideal world."

"So how many of your students dropped your classes because of mental health concerns, exactly?" Sheppard asks, amused. "Just out of curiosity."

"You haven't answered my question."

"I've played now and then," Sheppard says. "It's not anything I'd call a hobby, but I'm not inexperienced, I guess."

"Hmm," Rush says, and that's all he has to say on the topic, no matter how much Sheppard pesters him for an explanation.

That night they both fall asleep sitting on the floor, leaning against each other. Sheppard wakes up when Rush's phone starts vibrating its way across the kitchen counter, and Rush launches himself across the room to throw the phone into the back of a drawer. Sheppard feels worn out, like right after a good workout or the first hours when you wake up after a migraine. He's warm and sleepy and even the stabbing pain in his neck from sleeping sitting up is enough to dull his good mood.

He had been correcting Rush's Ancient the night before, and that morning he refuses to speak to Rush in anything but Ancient until they leave the apartment. Sheppard thinks it's hilarious. Rush doesn't, but Rush is barely a person in the morning (if 5:30 AM after three hours of sleep can be called morning).

Rush drives him back to the mountain but doesn't follow him in, and Sheppard is weirdly disappointed. It turns out all gate travel has been put on hold in order to open the gate the second SG2 makes contact, so Sheppard is stuck on the phone with members of the IOA all morning and playing over-powered light switch for the boxes full of Ancient tech that aren't considered important enough to get somebody important with the gene down to activate.

Sheppard still doesn't have a cell phone, but he's hunted down by an astrophysicist (it's almost like being home) who informs him "Nick will pick you up outside at 19:00."

"Thanks?" Sheppard says, uncertainly.

"Don't worry," she says. "That's how we all felt when we first met him. You get used to it. Or you don't, if you're 99% of the SGC, but hey, nobody here is at all bitter."

"That sounds like a story."

"not really." He hadn't realized until this moment that it's possible to slump your shoulders without actually moving your shoulders. "He likes you a lot. Don't fuck it up, please."

"I'm not planning on it," Sheppard says, cautiously.

"I'm glad. Also, since he's not actually speaking to me beyond texting, try to tell him to call "David" when you see him." She says the name with a mockery of Rush's accent, rolling her eyes. "I refuse to be the go-between for their mutual harassment."

Sheppard drums his fingers against his leg. "David. I think he was talking to him yesterday. The children's entertainment guy?"

She stares, open-mouthed, for a good ten seconds. "Yes," she says, decisively. "Correct. That's exactly who he is."

Sheppard makes a note to figure out 'David's' actual identity before he mortally offends somebody he's never even met.

Rush picks him up at exactly 7:00, pulling in smoothly, stopping just long enough for Sheppard to get in, and then pulling right back out. Before Sheppard can comment, Rush says

"That first day. You were... flirting."

Sheppard cringes at the word, but at least Rush is finally in the same goddamn book, if not on the same page. "Not literally the first time we met," he says. "You were wierd as hell at that point, actually, I never did ask about that, though I'm starting to think that's just a normal Tuesday for you. But yeah, after that, sort of."

"The rumour mill suggests this is just your default setting," Rush says.

"Firstly, I refuse to believe you're enmeshed enough in the SGC social culture to have any idea what the rumour mill says about anything, and secondly I can't imagine you stooping so low as to take any of what you would hear as reliable data. And thirdly, it's not my goddamn default setting, Jesus Christ, it's called being friendly, it's a strategy to get you through life without unnecessary conflict, do you know how many bullets and stacks of paperwork I've avoided by being charming?"

"I really don't care," Rush says. "And fuck you very much, I could make use of the SGC grapevine if I wanted to."

"You absolutely could not," Sheppard says, confidently. And then, "Are you taking me for dinner?"

"Always wanting to be fed," Rush says, with an overly-dramatic sigh.

Sheppard says, "It's a basic human need, you may not be aware, and also if people see me eating a few times they’re less likely to accuse me of being underweight."

He hadn't actually intended to say that last, but Rush doesn't seem bothered, probably because he's a scarecrow himself.

"I need to buy a cell phone," Sheppard says, to change the subject and because it's been bugging him.

Rush waves a hand dismissively. "Yes, that's fine. I'll drive you in the morning."

*

Rush and Sheppard are arguing about the value of golf as a pastime and professional sport under the guise of doing paperwork in the cupboard that people keep telling Rush is his office. Sheppard is killing time until the linguists who had come back from Atlantis with him are released from the clutches of... whatever the hell Daniel Jackson's department is called.

Rush is fair fucking offended that he has to do any sort of paperwork in the first place, and Sheppard's casual sprawl and easy banter are somehow simultaneously improving and worsening his mood. For once he doesn't look like he's ready to throw himself against the walls to escape, which is a significant deviation from his usual state when in the SGC. There's a delegation of non-Tau’ri visitors wandering the SGC, so Rush has been voluntarily confined to his office in order to avoid having to actually interact with them. The normal base personnel don't bother attempting small talk or other social niceties with him anymore, but anyone unfamiliar runs the risk of forcing him to play at caring about making a good impression.

"Listen," says Sheppard, "maybe you just haven't had the right opportunities to fully appreciate--" and then an alarm blares so loudly that Rush half falls out of his office chair, sending it skidding backwards a few inches to slam into the wall.

"Shit," says Sheppard, all traces of lazy indolence vanished like flipping a switch. "Stay here."

"Hmm," says Rush, and steps around the desk to join Sheppard at the door. Sheppard glares at him, but doesn't say anything further. He carefully opens the door a crack, peering out then flinching back as someone shoves the door wider open. Rush tenses up, but the woman on the other side is in an SGC uniform. She's also holding the hands of two children.

"What--" Rush stops himself before he can indulge the inane question, but his feelings on the matter still stand.

"Oh, good," the woman says. "These are Zeri and Natha, the head diplomat's daughters, can they stay with you, I need to get to the infirmary and their parents are on Level 12 and already secure."

"no," Rush says, but Sheppard is nodding.

"Go," he says.

"Thank you so much," she says, gently pushing the children into the office. "I'll let someone know-- I'm sorry, I don't think I know your names, doctors...."

Sheppard looks entirely baffled. Rush realizes he's forgotten he's not wearing his uniform.

"He's Dr. Rush," Sheppard says.

"Great," she says, and takes off at a sprint.

Rush stares at the children. They stare at Sheppard, so Rush joins them, and hopes his expression conveys appropriate levels of 'what the actual fuck?'

Sheppard crouches down and grins at the kids. It's awkward, but not as awkward as Rush is expecting. "Hey there," Sheppard says. "I'm John. This is Nick. Are you ok with hanging out with us for a little while until your parents come to get you?"

"We have emergency drills on our planet, too," the older girl says, like Sheppard's an idiot. Rush approves, and also sincerely doubts this is a drill.

"Ok," Sheppard says. "Some planets don't have the technology for the alarms and lights, so I wanted to make sure you were ok with what was going on."

"Didn't you read the briefing about our planet?" she asks. "Second mother's assistant spent a great deal of time writing it, and uncle made Natha and I memorize everything about the Tau'ri before we arrived."

"I'm a visitor, too," Sheppard says, "so sadly nobody told me about you guys. Why don't you fill me in so I don't mess up again?"

Rush knows Sheppard wants to be on his way to the centre of the action, locating his people and getting a "sitrep" and throwing himself needlessly into danger, but he's doing a remarkable job of hiding it. He also doesn't appear to have any intention of leaving Rush alone with these children, which is slightly insulting but mostly Rush is just pleased Sheppard is willing to take responsibility for the situation he's got them into. Also, contrary to most people, Sheppard seems to be losing his resistance against Rush's death glare the longer they know each other.

Sheppard keeps Zeri talking about her world for about fifteen minutes, long enough that the alarm has been turned off. Rush checks his email for updates but there's just an uninformative generic message instructing all non-essential personnel to remain in their current locations and await further orders. He shows Sheppard the message silently, and Sheppard’s entire body twitches toward the door before he gets himself back under control. Rush has no sympathy.

Natha is almost completely silent, sitting in the corner with her knees pulled up to her chest. She's not crying or shaking, simply withdrawn into herself, and rush finds this far more relatable than Sheppard and Zeri, chattering about inconsequential things a bit too cheerfully, Sheppard blatantly pretending everything is fine and Zeri aggressively pretending to believe him.

The all-clear arrives in Rush's inbox after forty-five minutes, and shortly after there's a knock at the office door.

Sheppard shoos both children behind the desk and out of sight, and Rush stays on the far side of the door, out of the line of fire.

"I heard this is where the party is," Daniel Jackson says, wryly amused and not at all phased by Sheppard's gun in his face.

"Oh yeah," Sheppard says, flatly. "We're having a great time."

"Nick," Jackson says. "I didn't know you liked kids."

"I don't," Rush says, knowing that Jackson is teasing him but unwilling to indulge him.

"So how did you wind up spending time with these two ladies?"

Rush huffs. "We were drafted," he says. "I fully intended to refuse, but this fucking liability over here," (jerking his head toward an unrepentant Sheppard) "was all too happy to say yes."

"It was an emergency," Sheppard says. "What else was I going to do? Besides, I don't mind kids. I have a nephew."

"How lovely for you," Rush says. Behind the desk, Natha giggles faintly. The look Zeri shoots her sister is eerily similar to the looks that David and Mandy give him when they want him to act like a "normal human" and think he's failing at it (it's not his fault he's worse at faking it than they are).

Jackson takes the children and leaves, and Sheppard looks increasingly twitchy as he realizes no one is going to bother to tell him what the alarm had been about. Rush is intimately familiar with the feeling.

"Shall we go find your linguists?" Rush asks, offering a distraction. Jackson has implied and David has told him flat out that certain people think he's a "bad influence" on Sheppard, or the other way around. Clearly those people have no idea how often Rush fucking goes out of his way to ensure Sheppard doesn't lose the tenuous grasp he's got on his self-control on a good day.

"Sure," says Sheppard. "It's about time we were heading home."

*

Sheppard loses twelve marines on a planet that was supposed to be uninhabited.

"No, I mean this quite literally," he explains to Rush, sitting hunched on the side of his bed. "We don't know where they went. They were there, and then I went to talk to one of the geologists and they were gone. We scanned for life signs, wierd energy readings, waited for any of our enemies to take credit. There weren't any Wraith ships nearby. They just... vanished. They were only there to lift and carry for the geologists, the lowest-risk mission you can get."

Rush makes an "mmhm" noise from where he's still stretched out beneath the blankets behind Sheppard. Sheppard doesn't look at him. He's probably regretting asking Sheppard what was wrong. Well, it's Rush's own goddamn fault. He should've been happy to just unquestioningly accept when his second-favourite Colonel appeared at his apartment door in pursuit of the kind of sex that lets you forget about everything else for a little while. Nobody had asked him to start fucking... offering to talk about things. Certainly not Sheppard.

"I know it's my fault," Sheppard continues. "But I can't figure out what I should have done differently. Which means it could happen again."

"McKay is better qualified to theorize than I am," Rush says. "Phase shifts, time travel, complete physical disintegration, teleportation, memory alteration. I could go on, but I'm sure I'm just reiterating what's already been considered. I'm not quite sure what else you expect you could have done given you refuse even to consider further formal education. Perhaps ask Atlantis." His tone isn't unkind, but it is entirely pragmatic, a little brusque. Sheppard really hopes that there will come a time in their relationship where he trusts Rush to tie him to the bed and not get distracted by math half way through.

"I came through with Rodney," Sheppard admits. "He's talking to carter right now."

"And you're avoiding yet another meeting," Rush says, not even a question.

"Nah," says Sheppard.

"I wasn't aware McKay needed a minder," Rush says, dryly.

Sheppard lays back down. "I came through to see you," he says, irritably.

Rush blinks a few times. "...Well," he says, finally, like Sheppard's handed him a ticking bomb.

Sheppard has the sudden urge to laugh, has to bite his tongue to keep himself silent. "I'm going to sleep now, calm down. If McKay calls my phone, do not answer it."

"I'm perfectly fucking calm," Rush says after a couple minutes delay, but Sheppard is already almost asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe this is my life


End file.
